


My Dear Crowley,...

by theycallmeDernhelm (onyourleft084)



Series: and after all this time/i’m still into you [34]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Angst Lite, Aziraphale Misses Crowley, Aziraphale-centric, Coronavirus, Epistolary, Lockdown Fic, Love Confessions, M/M, Masturbation, Pining, angel wyd, angelwyd, aziraphale tries to micromanage Soho, letter writing, lockdown part 2, minor miracles, observation of human behavior, soul searching
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-06
Updated: 2020-08-06
Packaged: 2021-03-05 20:41:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,576
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25741480
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/onyourleft084/pseuds/theycallmeDernhelm
Summary: Aziraphale loses himself in writing letters to Crowley during quarantine. He finds himself, too.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Series: and after all this time/i’m still into you [34]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1515578
Comments: 23
Kudos: 168





	My Dear Crowley,...

_Ring, ring, ring._

_“What._ ” 

“Oh, hello Crowley! It’s me. I just wanted to call up and- and see if you’d woken up yet, and it seems that you have...” 

“‘Ziraphale, it’s 11:00 am on a Thursday morning.” 

“I’m sorry, it never occurred to me that 11:00 am on any day was supposed to be considered _early_.” 

“Is it over?” 

“...I beg your pardon?” 

“It. Is _it_ over. All the- the disease and the madness. All the, you know.” 

“Well...you’ll be delighted to hear that the situation has improved, although in general, it rather seems that— Crowley?” 

_Tap, tap, tap._

“Eugh.” 

“What is it?”

“‘M checking my phone. Oh, bugger it all. It’s not any better, Aziraphale. In fact I can objectively say, as an actual demon, it has gotten _worse_.” 

“Whatever do you mean? London’s opening up, people are—“ 

“Not just London, Angel, and you know it. Everywhere else. ‘Sides. Most people who are out and about these days likely aren’t supposed to be. They don’t need me to tempt them into it. Perfectly fine without me.” 

“There’s still plenty for you to do, I’m sure.” 

“Not worth it. Going back to bed.” 

“But— Crowley, you said July! You said you’d get up then!” 

“Changed my mind. Nothing for me to do, not yet at least.“

“No. I suppose not.” 

“Right.” _Yawn._ “Well. Another three months it is. Gotta be over by then.”

“Very well. If you think it’s best.”

“I’m setting my alarm clock for October. Hang in there, Angel.”

* * *

October seems like a very long way away. So did July, when Aziraphale last spoke to Crowley in May, but now here it is. And here he is, too, clutching the handset again the way he did after Crowley had murmured a resigned “Goodnight, Angel” and hung up. 

Aziraphale supposes it’s not that uncharacteristic. Crowley has remarkable avoidance tendencies after all— the nineteenth century, for example, which he rather stolidly slept through. Besides, when demons aren’t off making matters worse, they could get off easily by turning their backs on the situation. Angels, however, cannot not turn their backs. They either have to watch the humans suffer or do something to help them. 

He places the handset back on the cradle and laces his fingers. October. Another three months before Crowley wakes up, and they can see each other, and...

Well, Aziraphale isn’t sure. He was expecting something to happen, although he’s no longer quite sure what. The idea that he has to wait another three months to find out is daunting. 

Aziraphale pours himself a glass of wine. And then, after a moment, he pours another glass. 

“To the world,” he says, and clinks one against the other. 

Aziraphale’s not sure what he expected. Something celebratory, perhaps, but there isn’t really anything to celebrate. People are still ill. People are still dying. People still don’t know how to fix this for good. Apparently, neither do angels.

He drinks both glasses, one after the other. And then it occurs to him that he should have asked Crowley to slither over. Taken up the demon’s offer, wedged a word in through Crowley’s trademark demonic pessimism. Not that he could have thought of how to say them so quickly, but of course, as words do, they come rushing back to him after the conversation he needed them in. _Now hold on just a moment, Crowley. I was thinking about what you said the last time. Maybe, if you insist on extending your nap, you could do so here. With me. I wouldn’t disturb you. You could have the bedroom, I never use it. You could have the couch. Just please, please tell me you’ll stay..._

Well, it’s no use now, eh? Aziraphale missed his chance. 

_Stupid soft angel, never so quick on the uptake._

* * *

Aziraphale thinks it is worth opening the shop, now that the rest of London is doing so. A few customers come in and Aziraphale makes small talk, but mostly to distract them from even thinking of buying a book. Always there is an undercurrent of caution. Aziraphale also detects hope— but it is a small, strangled, anxious thing, that wants to believe things will get better while steeling itself for when they get worse. He makes sure nobody leaves or comes in without helping themselves to a dollop of the hand sanitizer dispenser at the front of the shop. All Aziraphale has to do is need it, and there it is. 

In a snap, Aziraphale realises he misses the company. It had all been very well, reading in isolation, keeping the shop closed and keeping to himself and baking all those wonderful cakes, but the last three months have given Aziraphale a chance to miss the more normal aspects of his life. The life where he could count on the shop door to open, customers to come in and out; where he could expect a phone call from Crowley or the familiar rumble of the Bentley’s engine on the curb. Where, at some point in the next month or so, he and Crowley would have something planned; a night at the opera here, dinner at the sushi restaurant there. Aziraphale supposes he can do those things eventually. But he wants to do them with Crowley. 

* * *

The sun goes down. Aziraphale closes the bookshop. He feels...odd. Displaced, almost. A little cold. This must be loneliness. Aziraphale is not well acquainted with the feeling. He either preferred the solitude, or he had Crowley. And he wants to ring him up, so badly wants to have that conversation back and invite him to the bookshop. It would have made things right, after all the “we’re not friends” and “there is no ‘our side’” and “I don’t even like you”. 

Aziraphale realises he has been wringing his hands, pacing the study. He sighs and settles into the chair at his desk, for once knowing just how to solve this. He takes a sheet of paper and finds an elegant Mont Blanc pen— incidentally, a gift from Crowley some years ago. The words don’t have to be heard, not right now, but they certainly have to be said. Besides, it’s not like Crowley will ever read them. 

~~_Dear Crowley_ ~~

_My dear Crowley,_

~~_It has come to my attention that_ ~~

~~_After a certain amount of_ ~~

~~_I know we’ve been_ ~~

“Oh for Heavens’ sake,” grumbles Aziraphale. On the creamy paper, dark ink settles and dries. 

_Upon your decision to return to sleep on July 1st, I was left feeling rather disappointed. I had such high hopes for our eventual reunion, and had remained frightfully naive that it would all be over by then. However in spite of this—_

Aziraphale grimaces. That sounds vaguely scolding. All this time learning to talk in circles, with logical and concise formality, has entirely ruined his ability to verbalise his own feelings.

He wads up the the letter and vanishes it from reality.

* * *

_My dear Crowley,_

_In absence of our little chats, I have instead taken to writing you letters you may never actually read. You will find that things, at the time of this writing, have not improved, and I do admit that my mood has declined. There comes a time when solitude simply turns into loneliness, even for me, and you know how I value my alone time._

_I have since endeavoured to check up on the small circle of acquaintances I have here in London. Yesterday was invited to tea at Madame Tracy’s. She and Mr. Shadwell are faring well in spite of things, and I do believe he has, in her presence, shed much of his grumpy demeanour and is more jovial than I’ve ever seen him. They asked about you, you know. I only said you were indisposed._

_More and more I realise that I was a fool to lose my nerve, missing my chance to invite you to quarantine at the bookshop instead. Even if it was only for you to sleep again, I should have liked the opportunity to look after you._

* * *

_My dear Crowley,_

_I write this to you on a dull London day. When last we spoke, we seemed to be under the impression that when “this is all over” then things would return to normal. It’s been week since you decided to wake in October instead, and I can still assure you that things are not back to normal. Perhaps the usual version of normal has not always been a good thing, either._

_I have come to notice things outside the comfort of my shop and the sphere of my influence. And I realise now I have not always been good at fulfilling my function as an angel— always awaiting the orders from Upstairs, always certain that the Almighty knew what she was doing. I have waited three months as you know and the situation shows no sign of improving, nor do I have any word on how best I might contribute._

_This letter is taking an unexpected turn._

_Perhaps Heaven has forgotten me, Crowley. I know that’s what I wished when we helped Adam stop Armageddon and I know I had taken comfort in that possibility when we survived our executions. But I cannot ignore the feeling of uselessness that apparently comes with the territory._

_What would you do?_

* * *

_My dear Crowley,_

_I ventured outside today! I miracled up a face mask and took a walk. The park, which I’ve long associated with our clandestine meetings, seems different somehow, as if viewed through a monochrome filter. I don’t need the mask of course, but I also want to set a good example, and I do hope that the humans will catch on._

_You will be pleased to find that the usual ducks have not been affected as the humans have. I might have been the first person in some time to stop by and toss them grain, which has made them quite bold. There is this uppity little mallard you might be very fond of. London is easing back into some semblance of normalcy, yet I worry. You know I’ve always been the worrying type, especially where humans are involved— much less when they suffer from their own folly, but mostly when something great and terrible happens to them as a whole. The floods, the plagues, the wars. Sometimes, I rather wonder if this is the world’s way of acting out after it was supposed to end. Now that Adam’s put it back together again, perhaps it doesn’t quite know what to do with itself— it is a Libra, after all._

_I say, if the world were a book with a cracked spine, I would be able to find out how to start binding up the seams. I still feel terribly helpless. I know you would come up with something. You always come up with something. If not something good, then something bad, which usually always stirs me to do something good just to thwart you._

_I do miss thwarting you. Never thought I would say that._

* * *

“Why is this so hard all of a sudden?” 

The angel’s voice rings out in the empty, dusty bookshop. 

Aziraphale fidgets, wrings his hands. “Buck up, Aziraphale.” He’s made it through the past three months all right, hasn’t he? He’s even thrived in the solitude. But that was back when it was all new and it had a chance to turn around, and anyway, he had Crowley waking up to look forward to. He reminds himself that he’s just got to be patient, he’s got to wait, that Crowley once slept for a whole century and it was fine, Aziraphale was fine, in fact he’d managed to get a lot of work done without having extra wiles to thwart. 

“Yes, but it’s different now,” Aziraphale argues, to nobody in particular, without being able to explain why it’s suddenly different.

He catches sight of himself in an antique mirror. God, he looks frazzled. 

* * *

The sound of water rushing from the tap soothes Aziraphale. He’s always liked a faint, consistent buzz of sound in the background, part of why he loves the busyness of Soho. The tub fills and Aziraphale adds squeezes of soap, a drizzle of lavender oil. Some miracle lifts bubbles from the water, shining and delicate, and they float lazily around the room. Simple joys. 

Aziraphale sheds his clothing and slips into the tub. The fragrance fills his lungs, immediately calming him. Warm water closes over his body like a blanket. 

He shuts his eyes and for some moments his mind is blissfully blank. And then, inevitably, Crowley’s eyes, gleaming and golden, slither into his thoughts until it’s like they are gazing at him from inside the warm, dark bubble Aziraphale has made for himself. And the thought of Crowley’s eyes leads to thoughts of Crowley’s everything else— the lean, long lines of him, the sharp angles. His arms around Aziraphale, strong as the coils of a snake, the hellfire-warmth at his core. It sears Aziraphale, draws him in like a hopeless moth. That’s always been the way, hasn’t it? Crowley has always just been there, tempting simply by existing. Always present in Aziraphale’s life but ever out of reach. Before he knows it Aziraphale’s hand is sliding under the water, between his thighs. He imagines, in spite of himself, that long, lean body against his, supple weight pinning him down. Crowley’s mouth pressing to places on Aziraphale’s body that he didn’t know he wanted Crowley to taste until this moment. He strokes himself languorously and imagines being inside of him, Crowley tight and wet around him, the sounds he would make. _“Angel.”_ A whimper, a stutter, a low passionate growl. A ragged, breathless plea for more. 

Aziraphale pictures him devoted, adoring. He loses himself in the imagined sensation of long-fingered hands dragging over his chest, wrapping around his throat, lips ghosting soft breaths over his. And always, always, Crowley’s eyes. 

Aziraphale’s eyelids fly open. He has one hand wrapped around himself, the other gripping the lip of the bathtub, and the water is murky and the bubbles have gone and— 

“Oh dear,” he gasps, cold air hitting his chest as he sits up with a splash. “Oh dear me. Oh my goodness.” 

He knows he misses Crowley. 

He didn’t know he missed him like this.

* * *

_Dear Crowley,_

_Even I must admit that this is becoming more and more absurd. Sleeping for six entire months, honestly! I know you once did a whole century, but that was before we_

Aziraphale groans and snaps his fingers. The words vanish. He starts afresh. 

_Dear Crowley,_

_It may or may not have come to your attention in the last six thousand years that I hold you in extremely high regard and affection._

What is Aziraphale thinking?! This reads more like one of Crowley’s commendations from Hell, not a friendly letter. But what is he supposed to say, anyway? _Dear Crowley, today I had a rather splendid wank while thinking of you ravishing me quite thoroughly, and then I came in the bathtub._ Oh for Someone’s sake. Crowley isn’t going to read any of the letters, but it’s still terribly embarrassing. 

_Dear Crowley,_

_I find myself in a confusing flux of emotions unlike anything I’ve ever felt before. And I am thinking, a great deal. Of you. Of us. Of how I have come to feel about you over the last three months. Or indeed, the last six thousand years._

_It was always an easy thing to ignore when we could certainly say we were on opposite sides; at least, it was for me. But things changed after Armageddon. We started spending more time together, learned not to look over our shoulders or meet in secret places. And I rather looked forward to doing that again once you woke up. As it seems, my, er, earnestness to be with you is far more complex than I expected._

* * *

_My dear Crowley,_

_I took another stroll round the park. To get my mind off you, I admit, yet we have frequented the place for so long that too many parts of it bear traces of you. The bandstand, particularly. It’s occurred to me that I never did apologise for however I made you feel after our argument. I know that we don’t talk about our feelings. Or what these physical bodies we’ve been given might need. It’s just not our way, and yet we could always count on the friendship between us. Until, of course, I grew too scared._

_I apologise for doubting. And for moving too slowly. No matter how many opportunities I’m lucky to have, I still can never find the right words._

* * *

_My dear Crowley,_

_This would be so much easier if you were here with me. You’d be asking me all sorts of questions, and all I’d have to do is answer. I miss you, alright? I don’t know why six months suddenly sounds more unbearably unbearable than the whole century you went to sleep. I suppose that’s because things were different then. I didn’t feel about you to the way I feel about you now— or at least I didn’t know._

_Wake up soon, you silly serpent. We have much to talk about._

* * *

_Dear Crowley,_

_On my trip to the shops this afternoon I glanced in through the window of the French brasserie we have come to frequent— the one with the fine macarons. There was a couple waiting in the line. They had their arms around each other’s waists, hugging but not really, and they wore masks, but you could still see the love on their faces. I could certainly feel it wafting off of them._

_Six thousand years and we’ve never hugged, Crowley. Not once. Not even when we knew we were safe._

_Why haven’t you hugged me?_

_I hate you._

* * *

_Dear Crowley,_

_Forget what I said in the last letter, I don’t hate you— of course I don’t. I’m just frustrated, that’s all. I’m mad at myself and I was mad at you before realising it wasn’t your fault. How could it be, when I was the one always pushing you away?_

_I have had difficulty expressing myself over the period of which you have remained asleep but still resolve to do so, no matter how many times it takes. One might say the rawness and purity of an unpolished confession may seem more genuine, but both my thoughts and feelings are in such a state right now that I don’t know where to begin, and after the dreadful confusion of the last six thousand years, the push and pull between us when it came to our relationship (and don’t deny it, I know you felt it too), I can’t risk any more misunderstandings. Hopefully writing to you, or the idea of you, will help me make sense of things. You’ve always been patient with me, my dear. I ask for your patience once more time._

* * *

Aziraphale knows he’s being ridiculous. He also knows that he should put some clothes on, but five glasses of wine have made it difficult to think straight, or move out of the armchair he’s been sat in for the last hour. Bath water drips on the floor and dampens the fluffy robe he’s wearing. 

Yes, he did just get out of the bath. Yes, he did have another wank. 

This is turning into a regular thing, isn’t it? 

“I think I love him,” Aziraphale says softly.

No, that’s not it. Of course he loves Crowley; he loves everyone. Love is who he is. 

“I think I’m _in love_ with him,” he corrects himself, and that feels right. Nice and accurate. 

He sighs. “I know I’m in love with him.” 

There. 

And Aziraphale waits a few moments. As if maybe the Almighty will strike him down, or the bookshop will suddenly burst into flames again. 

Nothing. Nada. 

The world goes on turning. Apparently, it has other problems besides whether or not an angel loves a demon. 

* * *

_Dear Crowley,_

_I tried to take a page out of your book and go to sleep tonight. Instead I imagined you here with me, telling me you loved me. It is a silly thought but one that gave me comfort, even if it was only my imagination. I imagined us lying side by side, the scent of you, the warmth of your skin. I thought of how I might reach out and brush your hair between by fingers and even, yes, how it might feel to kiss you in the darkness. Would you let me, Crowley? Would you let me hold you in my arms till day breaks and the streets grow busy again? Have you ever thought about me the way I think of you, in such frightening, exhilarating human intensity?_

_Do you dream of me?_

_I have everything I want, in a sense. I was able to keep everything I feared to lose because we saved the world, and yet I am not happy. Writing this by lamplight at midnight, I realise it’s because I need you. It’s not enough for me to realise that I love you. I need to be loved back. And it is not enough to go to sleep and dream of you. I need you here in the waking world, if only to ease my worry. To remind me that we can have this and it will never be taken away._

* * *

  
The round room is dark, but for the few candles Aziraphale has lit around the gateway sigil carved onto his floor. 

The angel sits in the middle, knees drawn up to his chest, bathed in the ethereal, milky light. 

“I don’t suppose there’s a particular point to all this?”

His words echo in the dimness of the bookshop. If She can hear him, She doesn’t answer— but that, Aziraphale thinks, seems rather par the course for the Almighty. 

“Anything you might deem pertinent enough to share?” He ventures politely. “No...I thought not.” 

He brings his hands together in prayer. An old ritual. Angels are messengers of God, agents of Her divine will. It’s a rather different story, however, when they have messages of their own that they wish to get to Her. 

“What do you expect us to do?” Aziraphale asks now, his voice on the edge of an impatient whine. The kind of tone that would get a paint-stain miracled off a coat, if you were around the right person. Er, demon. “Clearly you have all the answers, you’re the Almighty. Otherwise, I would have asked somebody else.” The air is still and quiet in the spaces between Aziraphale’s words. “I’m— I’m not asking you to fix this,” he says. “I’m not blaming you. I just need guidance. That’s all.” 

He wrings his hands, fidgets with the hem of his waistcoat. 

“What’s an angel to do?”

* * *

_Dear Crowley,_

_Would you believe I went to church today. Actual church. Parish of St. Anthony. Don’t laugh, it was an utter coincidence. I came because...I spoke to Her last night. Well, I tried. Didn’t get a word back, so I thought if She wouldn’t speak to me, wouldn’t tell me what to do—_

_Anyway, church is full of humans. Praying. Hoping for a miracle. I decided to listen to them instead. And for the first time in quite a while I performed some rather helpful miracles. Or at least I hope they were helpful._

_It’s been a while, Crowley, a real while since I opened up like that, in the ethereal sense, listening to the prayers that needed answering. I’m not sure if the blessing I did in that instance had an effect on things overall. That’s why I was so hesitant before; what if I tried to do something good, and it only interfered with the Great Plan?_

_But I think I’ve learned, my dear. It only took six thousand years and the near-ending of the world, but I learned not to fear the Great Plan. Because if it’s something that nobody truly knows, then perhaps there was a need for my miracles after all, no matter how spontaneous or how small. Even if it was just to strengthen a weary nurse, or ease the worry of an old man, or calm the fear and grief in a mother’s heart._

_And I remembered what you said to me, all the way at the beginning. Do you remember? You’re an angel. You could never do the wrong thing._

_I suppose, what I want to say in this letter, is thank you for telling me that. And I’m sorry, again, for believing you only now._

* * *

_My dear Crowley,_

_I have spent the last week moving about London, picking up on prayers that need answering. I’ve gotten rather good at it. Most of the time it’s quite simple anyway— humans need strength, or healing; a little bit of money to get them by, or something to ease their pain. I find that these little strokes of good luck ensure that they can continue to take care of themselves. All they need is for things to go right once in a while, and it makes all the difference._

_There are bigger things I cannot change, like how to make the virus go away completely, or how to change people’s minds so that they think more about those who are suffering, and less about their own profit. Still, as long as I’m in a position to help, then help I will. And I’m glad I’ve spent as much time with the humans as I have, or I would have never understood things from their point of view. But from the great many years I've spent undisturbed in London (well, undisturbed by all but you) I had grown used to seeing few other celestial beings. So it was a great surprise to run into Hastur yesterday. Yes, that Hastur, Duke of Hell. I recognised him from my trial in your place, and he certainly recognised me in my usual body. I will not deny that it was somewhat amusing to see him jump in fear at the sight of me._

_I caught him at the back of the shopping centre, secretly diverting the supplies of toilet paper. Now I'm sure you remember the worldwide toilet paper shortage back when all this started-- I have no idea why that was suddenly so important to the humans in such a time. Doubtless, I found out it was a denizen of Hell- of course it was! -who was responsible for the whole thing. I can only assume that your lot was responsible for the trouble in the first place and were now trying to bring it back. I may have relied on some divine strength to intimidate him, and he had the good sense to flee, not needing very much threatening at all. It felt...good. A real thwarting, and a near smiting as well, though I’m somewhat relieved it didn't have to come to that._

_Now don't be jealous. I've had a splendid time thwarting you, but let's be honest, we were always just putting on a show._

* * *

_Dear Crowley,_

_I recall, and rather miss, our lively debates on the morality of human beings. How when, given the opportunity, they could choose for themselves whether to behave in a good way or a bad way. We have watched plagues and wars bring out the best and worst in humanity, but I admit I am still too soft to confront the subtle and insidious ways human beings remain a danger to one another. It had always been my hope that when brought to the test, they would rise to the occasion, see past their differences and learn to be kinder and more courageous. Unfortunately, when brought to the test, more often than not they use the harsh times as an excuse to act in altogether unsavory ways. They behave unkindly to each other, Crowley. They have little to no regard for each others’ safety. I understand this directly negates my previous letter in which I was certain a push here and there would point them in the right direction, that ultimately, humanity would do the right thing if they were just shown the way. Unfortunately, even when the way is clear before them they insist on turning round and going back the way they came. It is everywhere, in the way they treat each other. And to think I have missed all that cooped up in my bookshop._

_Perhaps Armageddon was not the worst that could happen. She is still testing them, She always will; and I am afraid that they are failing. Which makes my work, our work, here all the more important. Heaven and Hell will remain relentless in their efforts to win over humanity. The only help they’ve got going for them is the two of us. I understand now that our own side isn’t just you and me and what we want or think is right. Our side is with the humans. It always has been._

_How I wish I could talk to you about these things— really talk, like we used to, with several bottles of wine to help us remain eloquent until the wee hours of the morning. I love those talks— I miss those talks, the slur of your voice when you’re tipsy, the way you let your guard down and tell me all your thoughts and the not-so-ridiculous conclusions you draw about life, and the world, and the ineffable plan. The way, God help me, your eyes become raw amber, wild honey, rough topaz, molten gold in the glow of my lamps. I sorely wish that those eyes shall open soon and become part of my life once more._

* * *

Loneliness becomes Aziraphale’s new friend in Crowley’s absence. It fills the demon-shaped space in his shop, occupies the demon shadow that should follow Aziraphale when he goes on a walk. 

He’s tired. A full fortnight of puttering about London following half-finished prayers and fragments of human need, doing his miracles like some sort of middle-aged vigilante, is slowly but surely wearing him out. It’s impossible, of course, to mark every square inch of a very big city with the prints of his spotless shoes and leave a blessing in every dusty corner. It’s impossible to be there for everyone who needs him— well, maybe not him specifically, but someone, anyone. And it’s downright impossible to be Someone for Everyone all the time.

Aziraphale sits down under cool shade in a huff. This corporation isn’t as sprightly as it once was. He thinks briefly of applying for a new one, only to remember that Heaven is no longer talking to him, and a new corporation certainly wouldn’t be afforded to an angel who can already survive hellfire. Besides, what if Crowley didn’t like the new corporation? He looks up and realises he’s seated at the steps of the bandstand. 

He feels a pang again— sharp and sudden and sad. The last time they were both here, Aziraphale remembers, they had been fighting: Crowley was at the end of his rope, pushing Aziraphale to consider killing the Antichrist. Talking about leaving for the stars. We’re on our side, he’d hissed. Aziraphale remembers his response, stubborn and fearful. Dear God, he had really shredded Crowley’s heart to pieces that day, hadn’t he? Stood here, right here, and lied to his face about the book, about finding Adam. How they had managed to stay friends after that, Aziraphale doesn’t know. It’s sort of a miracle, isn’t it? 

Aziraphale gets to his feet and stands where Crowley stood, arms flung wide. He knows his demon’s heart is already big enough for the entire cosmos and a single angel to fit perfectly, no matter what Crowley might grumble and say. And he knows, then. This bandstand might as well be the axis of the whole universe. No matter how the world would turn or how many things would change over history, one thing that does remain constant is...them, isn’t it? Blessings done in lieu of temptations, and vice versa. Long rambling conversations over bottles of wine. Chains broken in the Bastille, precious books saved at the last minute, paint-stains blown gently off coats...

* * *

All right, then. Just this once. 

The locks and the latches of the Mayfair flat slide open at the wave of Aziraphale’s hand. Inside it is cool and almost clammy. The entire place is absolutely still. 

He does a quick scan. Lounge, kitchen, study, all in order. He opens a big window just to let the air in. Picks up the mail from where it has collected in a heap beneath the slit in Crowley’s front door. Deposits it in an orderly manner on the coffee table. 

And of course, the plants. Aziraphale slips into the vivarium to check up on them. The last time he was here, just before they switched bodies, Crowley had shown them to him, somewhat shyly. They grow like this because they are afraid of him, and now that he’s asleep, they seem to be at peace as well. Still tall and lush, however. Not a leaf spot in sight. 

“Still looking lovely, my dears,” Aziraphale coos. “Keep it up.” 

Last of all, Aziraphale sneaks a tiny look at Crowley’s bedroom door. Just the door. It’s fine. It’s...oh. Open. Unlocked. Ajar, just a tiny sliver. Aziraphale can see into the room enough to— not quite enough, really— barely anything in this dim light— it’s practically open anyway. It’s fine. Aziraphale pushes the door open a little further. He won’t let himself in. Just his head, enough to peek through. 

He can see Crowley sleeping, now. A long, languorous shape stretched out beneath ash-grey silk sheets and flanked by practically slablike pillows. Aziraphale disapproves. Pillows are supposed to be soft. Fluffy. He enters the room fully, waves a hand and they fluff up with enthusiasm, cushioning his dear demon appropriately. That’s better. 

The room is cool as well, almost uncomfortably so. Now that won’t do. Crowley is a reptile, he needs the heat. Aziraphale snaps his fingers softly and the temperature in the room rises and holds to a comfortable, sleepy warmth. _That will do._

On his way out he nearly slips on a pair of red socks. A grey tie. _Oh, for Heaven’s sake, Crowley. You snake, shedding your skin wherever you go._

He picks them up and places them on the edge of the bed. That’s all I’m going to do. 

Crowley’s sleeping form is a lump beneath the covers, and his red hair sticks out like a flame. Aziraphale’s heart swells. Well, maybe just one more thing. 

He leans over and very gently, kisses the looping tattoo near Crowley’s ear. The demon’s eyelids flutter, but he does not stir. Aziraphale might as well have been lighter than a butterfly. 

Crowley’s going to be quite all right. They both will. 

And then, as quietly as he let himself, in, Aziraphale lets himself out.

* * *

_My dearest Crowley,_

_You may notice some changes to the flat when you wake up. I took the liberty of popping in to check up on you. It was no bother, certainly the least I could do in return for your looking after me all those years, and you needn’t feel sullen about it; I only straightened some things up and gave your plants an encouraging word. Anyway, it’s hardly like you had to stand there and watch me do something nice for you for once, so there’s no point in getting embarrassed._

_These past few months have been enlightening, although I feel that is too soft a word. But I’ve had time enough to reflect on myself, especially in relation to yourself. Time enough to confront feelings I never let myself feel and reach out to parts of life I was too afraid to touch. I would have liked to share my innermost feelings to you in person, but they are so great that I must express them at this very moment. These pages bear the contents of my heart and they are yours to read whenever you next awaken. Suffice to say, regardless of which point in time these words reach you, my feelings will not have changed._

_I wrote to you whilst you slept in the hopes of putting together the quintessential love letter; all my thoughts and my hopes and my fears as I arrived closer and closer to the realisation that I loved you, and have loved you for years. In the end I wrote more than one letter, and I believe you deserve you read them all. No point in me being embarrassed about them either. There is no longer room for ambiguity between us, not after all these years I must have kept you guessing. After all the times I drew lines between us and insisted on keeping distances (not even the necessary, socially responsible kind.) After all the times I referred to you as nothing more than my enemy, or just a friend, or worse, a complete stranger. You must have surmised by now that I only did those things to protect you, but what came afterward— holing up in my bookshop, discouraging you from slithering over the first time we talked— I must confess, I did to protect myself. I couldn’t bear the thought of opening up my heart all the way and being punished for it, or you possibly not loving me back._

_But you do, don’t you?_

_You always have._

_And somehow, amidst all this uncertainty, I can see a future for us. Not just me and you, but for the whole human race; if we look after them the way we have all these years. I_ want _to see a future with you, one where I’m strong enough to tell you what I want and brave enough not to push you away, one where we can still keep working together because that’s when we’re at our best. And I cannot help but see a future with you— the one constant I have had in my very long life. You are at the centre of all things for me, Crowley, and I know now that's not a bad thing; it doesn't make me simple, or helpless, or selfish, or pathetic. It's_ _time I stopped fighting that and embraced it for what it is. So i_ _f I cannot take care of every human in London, then perhaps I can take the most care of you._

_I wanted to make sure you woke to a warm apartment, soft pillows, and thriving plants. I thought I should be there too, making sure you didn’t wake up alone and after six whole months. But I chose to go home and wait for you instead. To let you read these words, and decide, when you were ready, to come to me. It’s like the old verse, remember? Love is patient, love is kind. Because I do love you, my darling. I always will. That is one thing that will remain constant and ineffable no matter how much the world changes._

_So, my sweet and wily wonderful serpent, sleep as long as you wish, and have lovely dreams of whatever you like best. Read this letter when you wake, and then, when you’re ready, come to me. You know where I am._

_See you soon!_

  
_Faithfully,_

_Your Angel_

**Author's Note:**

> As those of you who follow me on Twitter know, I spent a long time on this fic as not only did it take me a while to decide how I wanted to write it, I also found myself projecting my feelings of helplessness and missing friends and frustration at humans in general onto Aziraphale. It's finished not because I found a way to end the story, but because I had to know when to stop. It ended up becoming the most intentionally personal fic to date.
> 
> Written and published late for #angelwyd 2020.


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